Around that same time, my friend Kelley (different Kelley, she with an e and of banana bread fame) and I had started reading a book together. (All right, full disclosure, we actually ended up reading different books but by the same author, Jefferey Steingarten.) She was making fast headway in hers, but it took me a few months to reach even the middle of mine, where he would discuss, it turns out, the subject of ketchup, in great detail.

And that was not the end.

See, when I’d read Steingarten’s ketchup chapter last week, it was just a few days after I had also seen, over at Endless Simmer, a post by my blogging friend Nick of Macheesmo. He wrote, if you can believe it, an entire post in defense of—what else?—ketchup.

Now, I don’t know what your feelings are on this thing we call fate (or as some like me might say, providence or even sovereignty). Probably these are questions best considered when one watches last week’s episode of LOST, I know, but, honestly: How can you look at those top three references—all of which took place within the same two-and-a-half-month span and after a lifetime of no such thing—and not see what I see: I was meant to make ketchup.

Making your own ketchup is simple, even fun. Here is what you do: gather ingredients, put them in a pot, cook them until they’re soft and limp and ready to be pureed, the warm scents of cinnamon and cloves wafting through your kitchen; remove the cheesecloth bundle and pour the mixture into the blender or, better, use a stick blender, and get it all liquefied; run the entire mix through a strainer; cook some more. Done.

As you might guess, ketchup is made mostly from tomatoes—a lot of tomatoes. [To give you a sense of the reduction, my twenty Roma tomatoes resulted in half a mason jar of ketchup.] All the other ingredients, which vary from recipe to recipe, act as accents. They are there to add flavor and texture and, hopefully, to complement the fresh taste of the leading player. In fact, in Steingarten’s study, in which he taste-tested more than 20 different varieties, if I’m remembering right, the best ketchups were the ones that celebrated the tomato, rather than hiding it.

Admittedly, unlike Steingarten, the extent of my ketchup consumption has ranged from Heinz to generic brands to whatever was offered in those plastic red bottles at the dining hall in college. However, as a girl who’s been eating mass-produced ketchup since she was old enough to hold a French fry, I can tell you this: my homemade version was sweeter, tangier, with a hint of clove and a bit of spice.

It’s different, and you’ll notice that, but it’s good, and you’ll notice that, too. And when summertime comes, bringing with it baskets of harvested tomatoes, I know exactly what I’ll be doing with them.

In terms of deviation from the original recipe, my changes were strictly based on what I had/could find available. I used celery flakes instead of seeds, for example, and ground allspice instead of whole. Because this is a homemade version, I think there’s room for fiddling with the portion sizes in the future if I wanted to make it sweeter or spicier or so on.

Also, note that this recipe does require one special tool, a cheesecloth. You might already have one laying around, but I didn’t. Thus another discovery was made: the grocery store sells cheesecloths, right in my baking aisle, across from the spices and nuts. In a pinch, though, you might try using a cloth.

Directions:
Wrap cloves, bay leaf, cinnamon, celery flakes and chile flakes in a layer of cheesecloth; tie into a bundle and put into a 3.5-quart saucepan over medium-high heat along with tomatoes, salt, vinegar, sugar, onion, allspice and jalapeno; smash and add the garlic. Cook, stirring, until onions and chiles are very soft, 40 minutes.

Remove spice bundle; purée sauce in a blender (or with a stick blender, which is what I did) until smooth. Strain sauce through a mesh strainer into the 3.5-quart saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until thickened, about 30 minutes. Add more salt, sugar or vinegar, if you like.

Transfer ketchup to a glass jar. Set aside; let cool. Cover with a tight-fitting lid and refrigerate for up to 3 weeks.

*If you use whole allspice, it should be placed with the cinnamon and other ingredients inside the tied cheesecloth.

If you’re from Chicago, cancel your brunch plans for next weekend. (Please?)

I know I don’t often make demands around here, but in this case, it is justified—and you will thank me later, I promise. Instead of whatever you’d originally planned, you’ll be visiting The Bristol in Bucktown this coming Saturday or Sunday, and here’s why:

This restaurant—well, neighborhood eatery, as it calls itself—is beautiful, with a cozy interior of exposed brick, hardwood floors, a chalkboard menu wall, a long bar with rows of ordered glasses and a communal dining area of intimate seating. I’ve read several reviews that warn how crowded the main room will be, but on a Saturday afternoon, we walked right in and got our choice of tables.

Speaking of when we walked in: I didn’t even open my own door because they saw us coming, and this staff is friendly. That makes sense, as the way I discovered The Bristol in the first place was on Twitter, through @JohnTheBristol (John Ross), one of the partners behind this restaurant, who posts updates about the seasonal Midwestern menu. The chef is Chris Pandel, formerly of NYC’s Cafe Boloud and local TRU, and his creative brunch plates range from a duck and potato skillet to a fried egg sandwich with pork belly and Mornay sauce.

After having a citrus buckle with bourbon cream, the taste of which lingered on my tongue, I ordered the Bristol Burger, sans cheddar, which comes with pickles and breakfast potatoes.

I wish I could tell you what all was on it, and I meant to look, really, but from the moment I took my first bite, I couldn’t stop eating long enough to notice much more than the golden brown bun and how it complemented the meat, with its sweet sauce and sliced onions, poking out on the sides with the lettuce. The breakfast potatoes were dark and crispy outside, soft and creamy inside, just as they should be, and that sauce—that sauce!

The fried egg sandwich is served with pork belly, Mornay sauce and more of those fantastic breakfast potatoes, and, though I’m not much a fan of eggs, I have it on good authority that this entree was also quite delicious.

[Oh and one more thing, just because I have to say this: if you’re lucky, if you go on a random Saturday afternoon like we did this weekend, you might be seated a few feet from the winner of Chicago’s Top Chef, and as you see her walk in, you’ll lean across the table, excited, saying, “Stephanie Izard just walked in the door,” and you’ll feel completely brilliant, proud, for choosing the same restaurant as the first female winner of the reality cooking show, knowing you’re in for something good.]

One awkward summer afternoon last year, I sat across the table from a boy, eating dinner together, and he told me he didn’t like cake. Can you believe that? He didn’t like cake.

He was so bold, in fact, he actually dared me to name a cake that could change his mind and, darn it, I must not have been ready because my mind went totally blank (or maybe I was just confused since the conversation changed topics so many times, without warning, when I’d be mid-sentence, even).

So I didn’t tell him about Swirlz and their magical cupcakes with the most amazing, creamy frosting I’ve ever tasted, nor that he should, on his way home, grab a $2 slice of chocolate cake at Portillo’s, that fast-food chain popular around Chicago, and feel its silky, rich frosting melt on his tongue.

Mostly though, I really regret that I’d never made this one, which, if I’d had to offer in my defense, definitely could have tipped the scales in my favor.

As you may have noticed from the post about truffles, there were two of my coworkers that had birthdays this last month. First was Carrie’s (provoking the celebration with Restaurant Eve’s cake, which you’d swear was a sugar cookie in cake form). Today is Alicia’s, celebrated at work Monday with this—a wonderfully moist and delicious chocolate cake, filled with homemade whipped cream and topped by chocolate buttercream frosting.

You know, they’ve come a long way, cakes. Originally just sweetened breads, flat and round, made with nuts and honey, cakes didn’t become the confections we now think of until the 17th century, at which time they were only available to the very affluent. Sometime in the last hundred years, cakes became more common, with home cooks taking them on in their own kitchens, like my grandma did with her home catering.

Still, though, cake isn’t exactly a set type or flavor: there are fruit cakes (those hard, brick-like objects people like to give at Christmas), shortcakes (summery, often paired with strawberries), pound cakes, jello cakes, box cakes, made-from-scratch cakes, zuccotto cakes, cakes with nuts, cakes with carrots grated into the batter. With so many different variations—and so many different people making them—it’s no wonder bad experiences happen.

Even birthday cake, traditionally layered, frosted and decorated, covered with candles and sliced into thick slices, isn’t hard to find done wrong. Everyone has their own preferences, but for me, this is what I expect from a good birthday cake (what about you?): moist batter (there’s nothing worse than dry cake), good flavor and a fairly pretty presentation. And this cake? Has all that and more.

I started with a basic Hershey’s recipe for the batter, figuring it made sense to trust the people who know chocolate best. Those of you telling me not to give up on buttercream will be glad to know the frosting is just that, and those of you who find buttercream a little heavy will be relieved that the filling is fluffy, light and whipped, a simple blend made from heavy whipping cream, blended until it was thick enough to dollop on a spatula and sweep over the bottom layer of cake.

Plus, as a bonus, the whipped filling adds moisture to the layers, ensuring this birthday cake will be just as it should be: soft and sweet, velvety chocolate with punches of light cream.

Bake 30 to 35 minutes or until wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool 10 minutes; remove from pans to wire racks. Cool completely. Frost between the layers with whipped cream frosting, and frost the top and sides with “perfectly chocolate” chocolate frosting. 10 to 12 servings.

OK. Next time I say I want to make bread pudding, taken from some random Web site I’ve never heard of before, just so I can use up my loaf of bread that hardened two days after I bought it?

Stop me.

If you do, I might be able to write a better post than this one, in which I will just tell you that, Yes, I did in fact spend a disproportionate amount of time tonight caramelizing sugar and softening bread cubes to layer with a creamy custard in a tube pan that would then, tragically, leak all over and around the oven liner, meaning not only that the bread pudding was a disaster but so was the kitchen and myself.

And, Yes, also, after I did all this, I would still head up to my computer, flicking on its glowing screen and gentle humming sound, just because, even at almost 11 PM, I’d know I’d planned to sit down and write something interesting about the dark chocolate truffles I made for Carrie’s and Alicia’s birthday presents, and, by gosh, that stupid bread pudding wasn’t going to stop me.

Tell me you’ve had nights like this?

I really should be sleeping right now, and heaven knows I’ll regret my stubbornness in the morning, but, I figure, maybe you’re up, too? Just today alone, I heard more than one person tell me how frustrating life’s been and how they feel a little lost, confused, unsure of the future. I’ve never been very good at giving advice in situations like those, mostly because everything I could tell them I should be telling myself (and also because, in these cases, the people were talented, funny and good-hearted ones, and if either is reading: When I don’t seem worried about your future, it’s not because I don’t care but because I know you and have all the confidence in the world in you).

Anyway, I’m better with food.

So to make up for every bad day, every bad recipe, every agonizing hour spent washing dishes for meals you didn’t want to eat, I offer this: homemade chocolate truffles. These desserts are wonderfully decadent, everything a truffle should be. They are easy enough to do with children and impressive enough to give to adults.

The moment you bite into the rich, milky darkness of the base, with its flecks of hardened chocolate and dense, creamy texture, things will be looking better, I swear. You can roll them in anything you’d like—I chose alternating dusts of cocoa, bright chopped pistachios or bits of thin almonds—but you might like a blend of cinnamon and sugar or something else.

As gifts, I lined them in mini paper cups, set in ordered rows inside white paper boxes, wrapped with brown ribbon, and I brought them to dinner Monday night, to give as birthday gifts on a night when I tried sushi for the first time, with three people I work with and enjoy.

I read so many truffle recipes before adapting/creating this one, which has the same basic ingredients as the original but a totally different set of instructions that are easier and faster (if I do say so).

I’d recommend setting separate sets of spoons by each plate of topping–that way you won’t be mixing anything if you switch around. Oh, and don’t skip the latex gloves—they make the process a snap to get through and to clean up afterward.

Combine heavy cream and pinch of salt in saucepan and heat over medium-low heat until nearly simmering; add vanilla. Pour hot liquid over chocolate chips and stir mixture until totally smooth. Refrigerate, tightly covered, for about three hours or until firm.

After the mixture has chilled, remove from refrigerator and create plates of chosen toppings. Wearing latex gloves and using two spoons, scoop out rounded sections of the chocolate into palms and form into balls. Use spoons to roll each ball in the topping of your choice and place on a separate plate or in a container. Makes around three dozen truffles.

Chill until firm, about 1 hour. Do ahead: Can be made 1 week ahead. Store in airtight container and keep chilled. Let stand at room temperature 1 hour before serving.

What I didn’t expect from this experiment, as a girl who has been known to crave frozen Tombstones from the grocery store, was that it would revolutionize the way I felt about pizza—not that I would stop liking the cheap kinds on lazy weeknights, but that, after having the smoky, thinner style considered a trademark in Italy, I would love this other kind much more.

Here’s how it’s made: A simple, thin round of dough is topped and slid into a hot, hot stone oven (we’re talking over 900 degrees Fahrenheit) and baked for less than two minutes over an oak-wood fire. When it emerges, the result is crispy, but not like a cracker—more chewy and tender, with a swollen lip around the edges and a wet, cheesy center. If done right, the pizza will have faint hints of char from the fast heat and punches of fragrance from the tomatoes. At Spacca Napoli in Chicago’s Ravenswood neighborhood, a pizzeria owned by Jonathan Goldsmith, pizzas are baked in an oven actually made in Naples, Italy, which cooks at 1200 (!) degrees Fahrenheit, amidst light golden walls with black and white photographs.

You know, the law of averages says the more times you go to a restaurant, the greater your chances of having a bad experience. Yet, for me, the opposite has been true. Every visit gets better, from the winter night last February, when the restaurant seemed packed, but we were seated in five minutes, to the summer when we took our friend Sonja, my college roommate who was coming through town for a few days, and we sat and talked, leisurely, on a slow afternoon.

I’ve been putting off posting about this place because, honestly, I didn’t think I could write about it without over-gushing.

However. After a recent Saturday when we capped off pizzas with risotto gelato, a sweet, creamy base with hints of vanilla and tiny bits of chewy risotto mixed throughout, the sound of the Andrews Sisters and Ella Fitzgerald in the background, I realized it was finally time. I couldn’t keep this to myself any longer.

And, throwing caution to the wind, I’ll just tell you this: I love this restaurant. I love the food, the service, the way it’s always busy at nights but always able to seat me. It is the #1 place I take friends. And if I could find a job down the street, I would move there, in a heartbeat, just to walk by its orange-colored exterior, inhaling its fresh, yeasty dough, looking in at its charming dining area, ready for another slice.

Because if you do, one chapter in, you might start saying things like, Maybe I could like mushrooms! Or fish! Or pickles! And so you will, try some of those things, I mean, after a lifetime of not, and you won’t hate them, not even a little, and you’ll suddenly see an entire world of menus and restaurant options that you’ve always overlooked, and, really, everything will change.

Now the second thing (which could seem unrelated): If you buy a birthday present six months early, don’t, please, make that present be for me.

Because if you do, you could be talking to me one night, about something simple like what what you did that day, while I eat forkfuls of tender pot roast and whipped mashed potatoes, and just randomly, I’ll tell you, You know, I think I’m going to buy a Le Creuset French oven next week, and you won’t be able to hold it in, that you bought me one, so within minutes, I’ll be opening the big box, uncovering the cream-colored, beautiful, beautiful cast-iron pot inside, ruining the surprise. And I will have to make something in it, right away.

(While we’re talking about my Le Creuset, which my wonderful plan-ahead mom had planned to give me in August, I may as well show you a picture:)

Isn’t she lovely? I’m thinking of naming her Lucy.

Anyway, the pot isn’t really the purpose of this post—I just really like talking about it—but the thing I made inside the pot is: creamy, comforting carrot soup.

This soup is the kind of recipe I would normally pass on: its primary ingredient is a vegetable, carrots, no less. I mean, you know that I like carrots in a French slaw, but in soup? A lot of times, soups tend to concentrate flavors, strengthening their power, which, if we’re honest, could be the very last thing you’d want to happen to carrots.

However. This soup is good. Like, insanely good. So much so that I am completely and totally happy it was the first thing Lucy made (that sounds weird, now reconsidering the name thing). It is creamy and sweet, comforting on your throat and your stomach. You’ll recognize the earthy taste of carrot, but along with it are hints of spicy clove and punches of sauteed onions and garlic.

I ate two bowls of this soup, right away. It’s wonderful with swirls of cream and bits of chopped parsley on top, where each fragrant, colorful bite dissolves on your tongue and sends warmth through your body. It’s healthy, as the recipes have been this week, but, more importantly, it’s delicious, and, really, that kind of change is worth finding, anytime.

Directions:
Heat oil in heavy large saucepan over medium heat. Add carrots, onion, garlic and cloves, and sauté until onion is translucent, about 8 minutes. Add 1 1/2 cups broth. Cover and simmer until carrots are very soft, stirring occasionally, about 30 minutes.

Remove cloves from broth and discard. Puree soup in batches in blender (or with stick blender in pan). Return soup to same saucepan. Mix in lemon juice and sugar. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Thin to desired consistency with more broth. (Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)

Whisk cream in medium bowl just until slightly thickened, about 10 seconds.

One minute, we’re pure magic—all fresh breezes and warm sunshine. Bailey and I go for an evening walk, his paws trotting past tiny green buds peeking out of the earth and I breathe in the new air, cold and clean, inhaling it down deep and sighing, happy sighing, the kind filled with satisfaction yet anticipation. The next, you’re waking me up in the middle of the night, my eyes swollen and my throat tight, while what feels like a hundred tiny hammers bang against my head and nothing—not the Vicks VapoRub® or the warm compress on my eyes or the two tablets of pain medication—makes me feel well again. I always forget about this part. Every year.

Then, just when I’m ready to give up on you—to say I’ll bide my time and wait for summer’s long, hot days—my mom buys and brings me a neti pot, a small contraption in the shape of a genie’s bottle that, when filled with lukewarm saltwater, clears my nasal passages and frees my airways and makes me breathe again, so I can taste your sweet, windy gusts that burst through my windows, signaling the rainstorm that will come, along with the temperate days and green, green grass.

Spring, I take it all back. I think I love you.

When I look at things clearly, I say you’re like kale. Does that make sense? Kale is dark green, leafy, sold in thick bunches wrapped with bands, filled with promise, the kind of produce you want to take home with you because it’s beautiful and healthy (!) and, you know, there will be a way to enjoy it. Even though it’s usually considered a winter vegetable, kale is easy to find on days like these in March, just like natural light and rainy evenings and smells of charcoal grills wafting through the sky.

But after I’d made a failed winter vegetable gratin and a botched attempt at blanched kale, I was ready to give up on kale. And then.

First at The Kitchn and then at Robin Sue’s, I saw big promises for something delicious, easy, healthy and impossible to resist. I saw kale chips.

Essentially, this is what you do: Wash your kale and break it into pieces, then toss it with olive oil and vinegar. Lay these pieces flat across a parchment- or Silpat-lined cookie sheet, sprinkle with salt and bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes.

In the fast heat, the kale loses its moisture and becomes crispy, airy, full of the flavors of olive oil and salt. My friend Jackie said they reminded her of potato chips, and a few other testers said they couldn’t get enough. In fact, they’re so surprisingly tasty, you might not even realize you’re eating something filled with vitamins K, A and C, not to mention maempferol, a flavonoid thought to reduce the risk of certain types of cancer.

It’s indeed possible, after having some of these, to find yourself forgetting preconceptions and declaring your affections boldly and loud, kind of the way you might after walking through wet grass, under blue skies, on a day before spring comes, like a girl in love.

It’s not like I have something against healthy food. Seriously. In fact, there are times—like at the end of last week, in which I’d shared an entire dozen doughnuts with a friend, ordered things like toasted (and breaded) ravioli and huge slices of pizza, eaten meat in my lunches and dinners, gotten takeout more often than I’d brought brown-bagged meals (and had the accompanying bloating and heaviness to prove it)—where something fresh and healthy is all I do want. I know it may not seem like it around here, where I’ve posted dozens of cookie recipes and, lately, an onslaught of cakes, but I swear it’s true.

It’s just—I’m going to be honest—I don’t like eating things that don’t taste good. Is that so terrible? And, at least up until this point in my life, the things that taste good are, usually, not exactly healthy. The way I see it, if I’m already frustrated about, say, the fact that an apartment I went to see was in a creepy, creepy building with hotel hallways, I don’t want to add to that misery with bad food, do I? It wouldn’t be right.

So my solution for years, in terms of eating reasonably well while not killing myself in the process, has been portion control. I try very hard to eat because I’m hungry, not because I’m bored or lonely or something else. I eat whatever I want, but I don’t eat a lot of it, at least not regularly. (And when I do eat too much, my stomach is there to punish me, and, believe me, it does.)

But I’ve made a recent discovery that sort of thwarts my working system or, really, trumps it. This probably won’t be a secret to you, but I have been shocked. Here it is: Healthy things can taste good. Like, really, really good. Who knew?

The idea for this carrot salad/slaw came from Mon Ami Gabi, a French restaurant that’s part of the Lettuce Entertain You chains. I had dinner there a few weeks ago, where the waitress brought out a long baguette to our table, hot and crusty, wrapped in a paper sleeve. With it, she placed a small dish of carrot salad, heaped high and decorated with herbs and drizzled with oils. I would later have a steak and frites, with a amaretto souffle for dessert, and it would all be lovely, but what I’d keep thinking about, what I’d decide I need to make for myself later, would be the carrots.

The carrots! I don’t know about you, but I don’t eat a lot of carrots. Beyond the obligatory trays at parties, with raw vegetables surrounding dip, and, of course, the sliced carrots that add wonderful sweetness to a slow-cooked pot roast, I just don’t think about them. I might have brought a bag of baby carrots to work a while ago, eating them at my desk in an effort to stave off hunger, but I certainly didn’t enjoy it.

Now this salad? It’s a whole different story. It takes all the good of carrots—their faint bitterness and woodsy, earthy taste—and combines it with olive oil, lemon and herbs to create a sort of slaw so good, I’ll eat it by itself or on crackers or sandwiched between chunks of bread.

As a bonus, it’s loaded with nutritional value, from the vitamin A that my grandma used to say was good for your eyes to the fact that it’s long been believed to help digestive issues. This is a dish you will feel good about eating, before, when you chop the carrots and toss them with olive oil; during, when you pile their sweet, juicy mess onto a cracker; and after, when you feel refreshed, not overstuffed, from enjoying yourself.

In fact, you could say, this carrot salad is enough to make healthy eaters out of all of us.

Good News! This tasty carrot slaw, which I can’t stop reaching for, is just the beginning of a week filled with healthy, delicious recipes. Stay tuned!

Directions:
Grate carrots into matchstick pieces using a food processor, a mandolin or a sharp knife. Transfer to a bowl. Whisk lemon juice and oils together, pour over carrots, and toss. Add parsley and toss. Add salt to taste. Serve with crackers, biscuits or bread.

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"That's at the root of all giving, don't you think? At the root of all art. You can't hoard the beauty you've drawn into you; you've got to pour it out again for the hungry, however feebly, however stupidly. You've just got to." Elizabeth Goudge

"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." J.R.R. Tolkien

"Every kind word spoken, every meal proffered in love, every prayer said, can become a feisty act of redemption that communicates a reality opposite to the destruction of a fallen world." Sarah Clarkson